It Wasn't Meant to End Like This
by fanficsawaityou
Summary: You never noticed that the colour red seemed to run through your life connecting the events together, like a string of fate. Though, this time there is too much red; you feel like you're drowning.


**Prompt: "Red is such an interesting colour to correlate with emotion, because it's on both ends of the spectrum. On one end you have happiness, falling in love, infatuation with someone, passion, all that. On the other end, you've got obsession, jealousy, danger, fear, anger and frustration." Ik this is a Taylor Swift quote but it's also interesting.**

* * *

Steve has always looked fantastic in red; the fact that he looks good in anything probably helps this fact, but you especially adore him in red. Even though you've already seen him a dozen times tonight, when he strides towards you across the gala floor you can feel your heart rate picking up. His suit is dark crimson, the tie a deep blue, and as good as he looks you can't help but want to laugh. Even in his downtime, when he's Steve Rogers rather than Captain America, he can't help but be the truest patriot in the room. When he reaches you, your face is stretched into a helpless smile.

"What?" he says, returning the smirk.

"Nothing, Uncle Sam."

He raises an eyebrow, "I thought you said I looked good. If I remember correctly, you said a lot more as well. I think it was something along the lines of 'I want to-"

You make a sound of shock, clap a hand over his mouth, and look around to see if anyone was listening. When you look back at Steve his eyes are twinkling. You fix him with a halfhearted glare before drawing back your hand.

"You're lucky that you're cute, you ass."

You lean forward to kiss him and can feel his smile against your lips.

* * *

 _Holy shit_ , nobody had warned you that Captain America _was hot_.

First year History had listed his achievements, noted his bravery, and been thankful for his sacrifice. It had not prepared you for the eventuality where you would meet him. But lo and behold, here he sits across from you, in all his handsome glory.

"-so basically I'm looking for someone to bring me up to speed with the times. I'm looking for a modern history education, and… someone told me you were the person to ask."

You are so caught off guard by the whole situation that you nearly blurt ' **what** ', but manage to catch yourself first, "Right, of course. But- I would've assumed that there would've been someone assigned to you during your transition. You are _Captain America_ , after all."

He seems to take this as a refusal and he quickly stands. He brushes down his shirt and then nods.

"You're right… I'm sorry for wasting your time."

"No!"

You blurt out the word a lot louder than you intended and immediately turn bright red. You pinch the bridge of your nose in embarrassment and sigh.

"No, I'm sorry. I'm more than happy to help you, Mr Rogers, but… you could have anyone you wanted- **To help you**! I'm wondering why you would chose me."

Hoping he doesn't notice the accidental innuendo, you close your eyes and slide down into your seat slightly. You hear Steve (Mr Rogers? Captain?) sit down once again and breath out softly.

"When I… When I came out of the ice, I was given _pages_ of different specialists and professors and experts, all Ivy graduates and civil servants, that were at my disposal. After everything that had happened, after everything that I had done in the name of S.H.I.E.L.D. and this country, I wanted something that I chose for myself. And that was you."

During his speech, you open your eyes in wonder at his confession. His last statement warms your cheeks (not that it matters much, your cheeks are **still** red from before) but to your surprise (and slight pleasure ( _slight_ ), you notice that Steve is also flustered and blushing.

He offers you a small smile, "To be perfectly honest ma'am, I picked you by chance. I used the phonebook to find history teachers, and when I called you, I chose you."

"Why?"

He blusters, red subtle but present on his cheeks, "I- I liked you voice… It seemed kind."

 _Oh_ _ **lord**_ _._ Right. Ok. _Crap_. You take a moment to collect yourself.

"Well, after a compliment like that how can I say no?," you grin, "When would you like to start?"

He smiles sheepishly, "My schedule's pretty free. How 'bout Friday week, same time?"

Your eyes flick to the planner open on your desk and nod. Again he smiles, then stands and extends his hand across the desk. You take it and shake it firmly, marking the deal as struck. Steve leans back and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He seems unsure what to do, so he nods his farewell and makes for the door.

In the doorway he pauses, his hand on the frame, "It's Steve, by the way."

"Y/N."

"Y/N… Pretty name… I'll be seeing you, Y/N."

With that he's gone and you're blushing red all over again.

* * *

You love watching Steve paint. It's one of the few times where he seems completely comfortable in his own skin. He gets lost in his art, and you can just stare and admire the angles of his face (one of your favourite pastimes). You lay spread out on the couch, listening to his music, as he sketches from memory. Last time you looked it had been a landscape but Steve was prone to changing things halfway through.

"Are you staring at me?"

"Mmm. Maybe."

"Why?"

"Because you're pretty, Steve."

He laughs at this, and then looks at you. You blink once, twice, thrice, and he's still staring.

"Is this supposed to be payback?"

"Nope. Just staring 'cos you're pretty."

You roll your eyes, close them, and then lay back on the couch. A few moments pass before you feel a spot of coldness on your cheek. You squeak and bolt upright. You touch two fingers to the offending cheek and pull them away red. You look at Steve, who is attempting to look innocent as he adds touches of crimson to the backdrop.

"What the- STEVE!"

You both jump to standing. Steve places down the paintbrush and then waves his hands in surrender. You step towards him as he matches your pace in reverse.

"Honey… is that a new look?"

You charge. Steve is a super-soldier and could easily evade you (if he chose). He decides not to. He catches you and sweeps you into the air. He dives for the sofa, and the both of you end up in a heap. You're both breathless with laughter, Steve beneath you so you can feel his chuckles all through your chest. His eyes are bright and his nose is almost touching your's. Without thinking, like a reflex, you say it.

"I love you."

You both stop laughing, caught in the apprehension of your confession. The grin slowly fades from Steve's face as the realisation hangs in the air. You choke. You start scrambling but his hand tightens around your waist. Hesitantly, he brings up both hands to your cheekbones. He is staring at your lips, and his face is neutral. Steve brings up his gaze, and you know that everything's going to be alright. A luminous, brilliant, darling, shining, wonderful smile dawns across his face and you break out in relieved laughter.

"I love you too."

Steve kisses you and then repeats the phrase again and again and again; he presses the words against any skin he can reach. He has a streak of scarlet paint highlighting his cheekbone and he has never looked better in your eyes.

* * *

"NOO-"

A gunshot cuts Steve off. You feel a tug, a tear, in your stomach before you are blinded with pain. A scream rushes out of your lips as your knees buckle out from beneath you. It feels like someone is trying to cut you in half with barbed wire. Waves of blistering, suffocating heat are ripping through your abdomen; you think the agony might just kill you.

"What were you thinking, Y/N?! **What were you thinking**?!"

Someone picks you up and you cry out. The world is too deafening and warm and syrupy. It feels like a dream but everything hurts too much for it to be true.

" **Someone help her**! There's got to be _something_!"

Steve is thunderous. Despite everything, all you can think as you watch his face swim before your eyes is how unlike him it is. Steve is passionate and stubborn as granite, but he's not loud.

"Shhh, Steve. Shhh, it's fine," you don't want him to change, especially not now.

He is cradling you in his lap, one arm under your head with the other pressed to your stomach. His face is haggard and grey, almost as if he's bleeding out with you. You're not stupid. This isn't the movies; people don't survive rifle slugs to the chest. Your life is cascading out of you onto the cement and goodbye seems the only thing left.

"Steve."

"No."

"Steve, please."

Steve is barely holding it together. He's violently shaking and tears are threatening to fall any moment. There is a pandemonium of movement surrounding you but you won't take your gaze from his face. You want to memorise its every slant, curl, line, arc, and your own heart is acting far too quickly as the countdown clock.

"I love you."

" **Stop it**!"

"I love you _so_ much, Steve."

He breaks. His shoulders shudder and the sobs choke out of him. As your own tears begin, the thought that you were learning more about him through grief than happiness swamps you. With lives like yours', you had never been naive enough to think you would grow old with Steve, but you had been sure that there would be more time. You had got up in the mornings with the taste of tomorrow always promised around the corner. You had both felt, and seemed, far too alive for ' **what if** ' to trouble you. Regret tastes like copper (though you wonder if maybe it's just blood). However, the brightest thought in your headspace remains how completely and utterly you **don't** want to die.

Someone else is jabbing at your ribs but the ache is just another part of the haze covering you. You want to tell them to stop, you want to beg for some peace, but you don't want to seem like you're giving up. Maybe you are, but _dear_ _ **God**_ **,** you are so tired.

"Stay with me, Y/N."

It's a prayer, a plea to find some hidden strength but you're not a superhero or a goddess or a spy. You're just Y/N; human to a T and more fragile than even you knew. So, you don't respond. You just take pull his hand from your stomach and hold it to your cheek. There is blood and red and _your blood_ everywhere but you want him to know the truth. From the way that Steve leans back on his heels and screams into empty air, you see that he understands.

He kneels forward and touches his forehead to your shoulder. You feel nebulous and the pressure is somewhat indistinct at this point. The pain is even fading now, although the paralysing cold that is swallowing your legs is far more terrifying. The agony reminded you that you were still alive. This frost, this bitter cool, only reminds you that you are dyin-

"It wasn't meant to end like this," his words tremble.

The response catches in your throat.

"I know, darling," it's barely more than a whisper, "I know."

Your heart is still fighting but black waits patiently at the edges of your vision. It's not suffocating or invasive yet you know there's not much to go now. It's time to go.

"Steve…"

He hears something in your voice that makes him pull back and hold your face. Steve is searching for something in your eyes; you don't think he's going to find it.

"No matter what happens, or where I go, I'll never forget you Steve."

It's like unanchoring. Numbness swallows you. Your sense of feeling goes first and the worlds dissolve into calm. Your hearing is next. Everything around you is screaming and, despite the fact that you _really, really_ want to hold on, you are almost relieved when it fades. All that's left of the world is Steve now. His face is all you can see. In spite of the pain and the exhaustion, he makes you want to stay; after all, he has always been the exception to your every rule.

 _Goodbye, my darling._

You admire his tear-streaked face one last time, and let go.


End file.
